A Letter Home
 by lamardeuse





Rating:  PG

Pairing:  Jim/Blair

Warnings:  mature themes, language


Written for the Sentinel Secrets challenge on LiveJournal












May 13, 2000


Dear Jim:

Well, here I am in gorgeous New Guinea.  It’s so humid you don’t walk down the street, you swim.  My backstroke is getting better every day.

Yeah, Jim, Henny Youngman I’m not.  I can tell you’re not laughing, but it’s not because I’m not funny, is it?  I know how you feel.  I haven’t laughed since I got on the damned plane.  Since I got the call from Bruce about this trip.

I imagine right at this moment you’re looking like I made you drink six algae shakes.  Or maybe you’re not even reading this any more.  You didn’t want to talk about it then, so I’m guessing you don’t want to read about it now.  And since you’ve quit reading, I can ramble on as much as I like.  It’s safe, right?  No harm, no foul.  I’ll just pretend I’m talking to myself.

See, here’s the thing, self:  for a long time I thought I was an anthropologist.  Then I became a cop, and that was actually working out pretty well.  I liked what I was doing, liked the people I worked with, liked that I was one of the Good Guys.  Even liked my partner, although he could be a bit of an asshole about my leaving crumbs on the coffee table.  But, you know, it was okay.  More than okay sometimes, but I don’t want to talk about that just yet.  Let it build, huh?

When my old buddy Bruce first called and told me he needed me to replace an injured anthropologist on his team, I was startled by how keen my partner was to have me go.  Then I started to get paranoid.  Was this invitation from Bruce a convenient excuse he’d been searching for?  Did he honestly think I couldn’t cut it as a cop, and this was his way of letting me down easy? 

So—because I’m about as subtle as an H-bomb—I asked him about it flat out, and he said, no, no, Sandburg, I think you’re a great cop.  But this is an opportunity you shouldn’t pass up.  A couple of months in the field will remind you of what it was like to be out there, doing the kind of work you loved.

And what if I don’t want to be reminded? I asked him.  Well, he said, maybe you need to be.  Maybe if you want it that bad, you should find any way you can to get back to it.

And that statement right there was what ended the conversation, because I couldn’t think of anything else to say after that.  Because I realized I’d never really thought about what I wanted.  I never thought there was a choice, so I didn’t allow myself to consider it.  Being a cop was important, it was a place where I was wanted and needed, and the reverse equation did not come into play.  So now I thought, well, maybe it is time to test the waters, even though the thought of diving back in scared the living shit out of me. 

So I booked the flight and got on the plane and here I am.  It’s been three weeks and I’m back into the rhythm of the work like I never left it.  Bruce and I always worked well together, and the guy I’m replacing for two months left great notes.  I’ve been made to feel right at home, welcome, accepted.

But there’s one problem.  I don’t feel like I’m home.  I feel good, challenged, fulfilled, useful, but I felt all those things last month when we closed the Hemings case.  I also feel restless, twitchy, angry, and I haven’t felt that way in a long time.

I feel lonely, and I’d forgotten what that felt like.

Nights here are almost as hot as the days, and I dream like crazy when I’m hot—always did.  I dream about lots of things:  the look in Suzie Hemings’ eyes when we told her her mother had been murdered.  The smell of dead bodies, which is something I never thought I’d get used to, but God help me, I have.  I have.

And I dream about other stuff, more pleasant stuff.  The taste of the soup my partner made for me when I got sick last February.  The feel of his shoulders under my hands when the tension knots them up and makes it impossible for him to sleep unless I loosen him up first.  The sandpaper rasp of his voice murmuring encouragement as I take away the pain.

Yeah.  When I sleep over here, I dream about my partner a lot.  I dream about things that happened, and I dream about things that never happened. 

Last night was so damned hot, it took me hours to drift off, and when I did, I dreamed that his hands were on me this time.  They started at my shoulders and moved up into my hair, then down, down, down until I was gasping and shaking and—

When I woke up, my voice was hoarse and battered from shouting his name, and I wanted nothing more than for it to go away, because Christ, this isn’t anything like what I was expecting to find when I boarded that plane.  But when this day was finally over and I was sitting like a moron with a piece of blank paper in my lap, I knew I had to write it down, make it real, because suddenly I know what I want, what I need.

It scares the living shit out of me, but I know.

Jim?  Are you reading this?  Do you know what the hell I’m doing?  Do you know if I’m even going to mail this fucking letter?  Can you look in your crystal ball and tell me my future?  Because right at the moment it looks pretty murky to me.

All I know is that I had to come halfway around the world to realize there’s no home for me away from you.  And if I mail this, I risk closing the door on that home forever.

But there’s also a chance I might open a whole new door—oh, screw the cheesy metaphors.  Just—here’s what I’m going to do.  I’m going to mail this.  I’m going to survive the next six weeks of dreaming about you, and then I’m going to come home.  That should give you about three weeks to think about us, about the slim chance there might still be an us after you finish reading this. 

If your answer is no, I understand.  No harm, no foul.  Maybe it’s the heat.  Maybe when I step off that plane I won’t remember what it was like to call out for you in the jungle, when the night is so dark that even you couldn’t see in it. 

Then again, maybe I will.

Get ready.


Blair








Stepping into the loft was like walking into a sauna. 

The unseasonably hot and humid weather had gripped Cascade for a week before Blair’s plane touched down on American soil.  The late night air was fairly cool, however, the breeze from the ocean bringing relief as he stepped from the air-conditioned airport into the air-conditioned taxi.

But in the loft, the jungle reigned still; the balcony doors and the windows were locked up tight, as though Jim were bracing for an unwelcome invasion.  He tried not to think about what this might signify; Jim hadn’t known his specific arrival date.

Or maybe he had.

There was only one light on in the loft, the small lamp on the table beside the sofa.  In the circle of light confined by the shade, Blair saw a white envelope with his name on it.

His hands trembled as he tore through the seal.










June 25, 2000


Blair—

It’s been hotter than hell.  And I’ve been dreaming. 

God, I’m glad you’re home. 

Jim

P.S.  In case that’s too subtle for you, that means get your ass up here, Sandburg.





Blair’s grin lit the darkness as he switched off the lamp.  He found the stairs from memory, wading through air that was thick with humidity and newborn hope.





 End






October 2004

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